


An Opening Bid

by helena_s_renn



Series: Play the Game [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Consent Issues, Future Fic, M/M, Sex for Favors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 00:03:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helena_s_renn/pseuds/helena_s_renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen months after the two days of filming those scenes, Jared, if he closed his eyes and touched himself, could still conjure up everything. Three years later, Jared has a reputation in Hollywood, only partially deserved. Jensen approaches him in an hour of need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Opening Bid

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: This may come across as way, way too close to these people's personal lives. It's fiction! Also, shots are taken at Jensen's family, and I apologize. Don't read if this will upset you. Possible issues of consent. Sex for money, inferred.  
> Timeframe starts in December, 2013.  
> Beta by ChristianHowe.

Six episodes into Season 9 of SPN, the CW called it a wash and ended it. The network was in breach of contract, but even the huge buy-out extended to the entire production staff and crew cost less than their projected losses of a 24-episode season. Jared and Jensen walked out with three million apiece. Later, for a price, the network aired six more post-production status episodes to end the arc. It also kept another two, half-finished, in the vault for ‘posterity’. 

Jared became the owner of these digital bits of legend. Every cent they’d shelled out to buy him off went back into the crumbling network’s hands, or more likely, the pockets of its execs. Actually, he’d been relieved these segments never aired and never got leaked online. Word, sure, rumors, spread through those who’d been there, signed non-disclosures or not; everyone knew it would happen sooner or later. 

But to Jared, it was private. Kripke had NOT been consulted about the decision to out Sam and Dean one week, as they finally admitted their true feelings for each other, and the next week, show the world what brotherly love could look like. 

Sixteen months after the two days of filming those scenes, Jared, if he closed his eyes and touched himself, could still conjure up everything. He and Jensen had never been more than friends of varying degrees, depending on real life complications. In late 2013, Jensen had been on edge, lack of sleep from a teething baby, Danneel already knocked up again, the holidays encroaching along with all the hearsay they were about to be shit-canned, which they were, Merry fucking Christmas. And too, his parents had gotten wind of the plot and laid into him by phone. As if they had any reason to complain - Jensen had been supporting his extended family for years. So when it had come time for the kissing, those first touches and undressing each other, Jensen had cast his eyes where they told him, moved his hands when and where. He'd been sweet, respectful, just like Dean always treated his women, but stiff – not in the good way. Hesitant. Lacking enthusiasm. It took Jared blowing him, because of course Sam would do that for Dean, right there surrounded by grips and camera people, every one strangely silent but for communal heavy breathing, for Jensen to unthaw. 

Two cameras on tracks captured discreet angles to tease the eyes: a shadowed cut of hipbone showing under a bent knee, panoramic landscapes of tanned back and shoulders, curled toes. One other caught nothing but pure porn. Jensen’s hitching little gasps were recorded, Jared’s slurps and grunts. Face red and teeth bared between bitten, swollen lips, Jensen twisted, groaned, finally gave up control and came down Jared’s throat. A strangled cry and a few seconds later, it was over. In the interest of no one ever knowing for sure if it was real or just acting, Jared swallowed the bitter, milky spurts. 

After that, the atmosphere went from deathwatch to happy, happy funtime. No one commented on the intermittent appearance of bulges, or the need for more frequent breaks. It was natural, close contact or whatever, between good, comfortable friends. They spent half the time giggling and snorting trying to suppress it. A scripted howl of release or yowl of “Bonsai!!” before a flying leap, it was all the same. 

What a way to go out. 

Every uncut, unscored, unedited frame was there, safe behind the Nagel print in Jared’s home vault. 

Blackmail didn't interest him. The act had set off something in him that he hadn’t slaked yet. Three years, gone by now since he’d tucked those DVDs away.

Immediately following the demise of SPN, he’d been fast-tracked to A-list status. Yeah, he could act. No one disputed that, given how he dominated the screen whenever they let him break out of Sam’s emo crap. He did most of his own stunts, kept his body in top form, and yep, he'd even done something about the unfortunately receding hairline. Just that and his name wasn’t enough – ten thousand wanna-be’s were as talented and hard-working. It was his persona, too, the friendly, overgrown, floppy-haired mutt of a man who flashed his altogether as easily as his dimples. They wanted him for that. He kept showing his abs, or butt, or hipbones, or what nature had been so generous with to begin with. Jared would do whatever was likely to make the Christian Right and the fangirls squeal, because it paid very well. Genevieve never minded – what life being married to Jared Padalecki offered kept her happy. He told her everything, well, nearly, and the rest, she was smart enough to deduce and let lie. 

In certain Hollywood circles, Jared Padalecki was known as a kinky, deviant motherfucker. They dubbed it “the menagerie of washed-up has-beens.” No one knew for sure who got included, though there were plenty of educated guesses. Didn’t matter that he didn’t do ‘kept’, or that ‘menagerie’ was exaggerated. Jared only had two regulars. There’d been a half-dozen or so one-time others, which turned out to be one too many,

Word went around, and around. It became official when Manganiello jokingly replied on late-night TV to the question of what he’d do if he wasn’t an actor: “I’d always act; they’d have to blackball me. But okay, okay, if not film, then TV again, or Broadway, hell, community theatre. Or I could always jerk it for Jared. I hear that pays well.” He’d spent the rest of his timeslot eating his words, saying it was only idle gossip, and thank god he didn’t give up a last name despite the host’s haranguing. Jared wasn’t that common of a name in Hollywood, though fact was, Padalecki and Leto were the top two contenders. Genevieve had laughed her ass off, giving him the ‘nudge, nudge, wink, wink,’ and sharp elbows, to which Jared shrugged sheepishly and spread his hands, his own tell of truthfulness. They’d spent the next six hours having their wildest sex since the Ruby days. 

They still lived in the same house. It suited Jared, kept him real. The media wondered if he was really bad with money, since he’d never upgraded the way his former co-star Jensen Ackles had, selling off his starter home and his and Danneel’s post-honeymoon residence, and moving into acreage and stucco in the prime district. That was, Jared happened to know, the bane of Jensen’s existence at the moment. For all his promise and pretty, big-eyed, lush-lipped looks, even at 35, he’d for some reason never caught on with the studio bigwigs. The power of the SPN fan base hadn’t been enough to save him, or more accurately, sell him. Nor was having a supermodel wife who spent significant chunks of time in treatment for undisclosed reasons. Nor did the ‘conservative family values’ his parents pressed upon him. Everyone he worked with learned that this was the type of baggage they’d be hiring, if they signed a contract with Ackles. Any of the clan would pop up on set at any time, often with his now three admittedly beautiful children in tow, and there’d be a blow-out of some kind. 

Jensen should’ve been able to pay off the Malibu house in a couple of years, five tops. Just one good film or TV series, anything. Jared was disinclined to think about what the man was doing for work these days. It was embarrassing. Voice-overs for anime. Lifetime movies. 

And then there was the 50 Shades debacle, straight out of Dean Winchester’s worst nightmare. Jensen, gorgeous or not, was 10 years too old to play the character across from a 23-year-old actress who looked 17, where he looked his age - it wasn’t what that train wreck of a book was about. The semblance of a BDSM-lite relationship between a broody, controlling, inexplicably nouveau-rich douchebag dominating a pliant, vacuous virgin with borderline-personality disorder just wasn’t in his range. Plus, he refused to show his junk for the camera. When asked to make a statement about being let go from the production, all he would say was that full frontal had not been outlined in the contract. “Didn’t you read the book? Or the script?” “The script underwent significant rewriting. It was... vague.” Didn’t he know the meaning of 'hard R’? The adjective was played upon in every damning way, all the implications pointing at impotence. Which, Jared supposed, killed a male star’s draw faster than any nervous break down, jailbait bust, or herpes.

That was all it took. Jared shouldn’t have been surprised to hear from Jensen a few weeks later, a phone call asking him out for drinks. They’d kept in touch at first, but by the time Jared secured his ‘purchase,’ already distance had made them not much more than acquaintances. When they hugged, though, it was like old times. The undercurrent of there having been something sexual between them once barely bothered him. Jensen didn’t tense up, exactly. In fact, if Jared hadn’t known better, he’d have thought Jensen had been pressing against him, half-hard, but that was as ridiculous as it was intriguing. 

When his boys came to him, it tended to be with a regrettable attitude of desperation and shame that Jared either corrected, or he was done. His game didn't include virginal hysterics. 

They hid out in a banquette rather than sit at the bar, in a quiet corner with a candle in a glass jar with a webbed covering flickering in the gloom. He didn't even pretend not to watch the orangey light and shadows dance across Jensen's features. Only, Jensen touched by light alone wasn't going to satisfy Jared for more than five seconds of artistic eye candy. 

Catching up didn’t take long, what with their lives being so public. They compared children. And dogs. Mutual friends. Jensen waved aside any mention of his work, where-as Jared regaled his quieter friend with several choice anecdotes from behind-the-scenes of his films – he’d done four, scoring the lead in the last. They’d have been cookie cutter action flicks but for some quirk he’d made sure of before signing anything, be it a female sidekick or a romantic scene involving a threesome or whatever. He could pull off anything; it was ‘the Jared factor’, a phrase almost as popular online as ‘jerk it for Jared’. 

Sometime after two, Jensen finally downed enough liquid courage to bring up the subject they’d talked around all night. 

“Is it true, what they say about you?” he leaned back in his set, open jacket framing a nice black button down shirt. “You know, like on Night Lights?”

Jared stalled, taking another long pull from his beer bottle. “Don’t you think that’s something you’d rather not know the answer to?”

“Maybe. But then you’d better find some more effective double-talk next time.”

Fine, point to Jensen on that one. Jared just shrugged. He’d given the man his opportunity for an easy out, and Jensen hadn’t taken it. “If this is the part where you try to bust my balls, good luck with that, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s time to call it a night. If, on the other hand,” he caught Jensen’s eyes, forest green in the lighting and defensive and scared, none of the unshakable self-assuredness he remembered, “if you’re here because you _want_ something, you have about thirty seconds to spit it out.” 

Jensen went full deer-in-the-headlights, but when Jared coughed and muttered, “Thought so,” making to leave, he laid a hand on Jared’s sleeve. His fingers were cold where they brushed the raised veins on the inside of Jared's wrist. “I’m about to lose my house,” he blurted. “And everything else. I... heard that you pay well.” Jensen blinked once, then stared at Jared as if his last hope hinged on a ‘yes’. “So if there’s anything I can, uh, do for you...?”

One thing about being the master of the game, he could play with his chosen, even before they became such. “Mm. I do pay well. Everything’s agreed on up front, it’s cash only, and no written anything. What did you have in mind, Jensen?” The opening move. 

“Uh...” A light wash of pink rose over Jensen’s cheeks. “I dunno. Like the saying goes, I guess.” 

Jared snorted, “Oh, you mean ‘jerk it’? That’s oversimplified, but it’s always possible.” 

“Okay. What about like... you know...”

“Jensen. We’re not a couple of tongue-tied adolescents. Spit it out.”

“I imagine I would... spit.”

“Better.” Fuck yeah, better. Jared was almost fully hard at the insinuation, the mental picture of creamy white dribbling over those lips.

“What if I get cold feet?” This always came up. It was better to discuss it before it ever happened.

“You back out of a scene after we’ve agreed, that’s fine, because I don’t do guilt. But I also don’t do second chances. So never consent to more than you can handle.” 

Jensen was already shaking his head in confusion. “I... maybe I don’t understand the rules. Aren’t you... like a pimp?”

“If you want to use that analogy, then no, I’m like the john. There’s no middleman." He lowered his voice to barely above a whisper, so Jensen had to lean forward to hear. “You suggested that you’d be willing to jerk off in front of me. You might ask two grand for it, but I might counter-offer you fifty to let me fuck you... if you’re not comfortable with taking it up the ass, don’t even think about the fifty G's because I don't pay for coitus interruptus or good intensions, and I don’t pay if I’m not satisfied with the performance."

He got another blink. “You’d pay two grand for... that?”

As answer, Jared ran his eyes up and down Jensen’s body, pausing at his lips and package, making a show of adjusting himself. “For you, maybe more, depending on what else might be on the menu.”

“Like?” The right eyebrow went up in cautious interest.

“Like... facial. Or using toys. Wearing and/or cumming in lingerie. Allowing me to touch you. Shit like that. Believe me, I have a laundry list ten miles long.” Jensen’s face flushed and he looked away, hunching forward.

“Yeah, see... not your thing." 

“Didn’t say that. It might be... my thing. Be something different. Haven’t had any decent sex in like, two years.” He glanced left and right, clearly wishing he hadn’t shared that last part.

“Well, this isn’t therapy," Jared told him bluntly. 

Jensen looked away, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. “So what, then? This is just a huge game to you? It's funny? I came to you because... I'm running out of options."

“This is about one or both of us getting off hard to whatever tune we can agree on. And you getting paid. It's not a joke. It's what _I_ need, for myself. I take care of what I need.” 

Two years? Two fucking years? Two _non-fucking_ years?? What the fuck?

Before Jared had time to wonder what ‘decent' might mean in this guy’s terminology, or before any awkward questions could come of that, Jensen’s phone rang and he took the call. Obviously his wife. He blew out of there fast, not before asking if he could set up a meeting the next day. 

“Call me. Use this number.” Jared slid an ivory business card across the table. “Think about what you can handle. We’ll start slow. Next week, though.” 

There was nothing left to do but stare at Jensen’s ass as he walked away. It was alright, as asses went, although Jared preferred Chad’s tiny buttcheeks. The bowlegged swagger hadn’t gone anywhere – whatever was going on in Jensen’s life, it hadn’t taken the signature walk away yet. A fan would probably name it ‘all Dean Winchester’, but what they didn’t necessarily know was that Dean Winchester was scripted, and he was just an overlay of Jensen – the grittier, cockier, sensitive-thug version. His alter-ego, in a way. 

Jared got that. Sam was his complete opposite, though, and he’d shed him like water.

This was business, nothing else. No unrequited bullshit lurked about in his past.

Finishing the last of his beer, Jared put together a mental list of the things he might ask of Jensen, attaching a dollar value to each. Married guy with old-fashioned family values being shoved down his throat wasn’t going to come cheap. Maybe he’d come easy, though, if he wasn’t bluffing about the ‘no decent sex’ bit. Jared’s mind had decided to fixate on that little phrase falling from Jensen’s lips. 

He wouldn’t let it turn into a weakness. He couldn’t afford that, not financially because even Jared had limits, and not in terms of his heart and mind. 

Besides, he doubted he'd hear from Jensen again, about the subject of tonight’s ending conversation. It had been almost too easy, reeling him in. The second thoughts had probably begun about 90 seconds ago. Signaling for the tab, Jared pulled out his card and his phone and dialed 23 on his speed dial list.

**Author's Note:**

> The following elements are fake:  
> *lost episodes, and Jared buying them off the network for his personal collection  
> *SPN being cancelled mid-S9  
> *Add'l Ackles kids (to date)  
> *Joe Manganiello appearing on a fictional late night talk show called "Night Lights"  
> *Financial or psychological (i.e., "treatment") difficulties of any Ackles family member  
> *Jensen being cast in 50 Shades of *!$


End file.
